Blackstone and the Endgame (16 page)

‘I caused him a certain amount of discomfort,' Ellie said vaguely. ‘I may be small, but I'm very sneaky.' She grinned. ‘Tell me more about the records.'

‘The government decided to buy this warehouse to store the documents in,' Patterson continued. ‘It was always the plan that, when there was time available to do it, somebody would go through all the records looking for hidden secrets, but, of course, that's never happened.'

‘So all the records are here,' Ellie Carr said. ‘Are we looking for anything specific?'

‘Yes,' Patterson replied. ‘We're looking for the records from some of the
Vereins
.'

‘And what in Gawd's name is a
Verein
?'

‘It's a bit like a club and a bit like a union, but it's much more than both of them. It's said that if you get twelve Germans in one place, they'll always form a
Verein
.'

‘How do you happen to know all this?' Ellie wondered.

‘Sam and I worked on a case once where I got to know all about the
Vereins
,' Patterson said. ‘One of the bigger ones, if I remember rightly, was called the German Industrial and Theatre Club. It held dances and concerts every week, but it also served as a base for the typographers', bicyclists' and chess players'
Vereins
, which were much smaller. And it ran its own benefit societies – all the
Vereins
did – so if any member got sick or lost his job, they'd look after him. They'd also bury him if his family couldn't afford to.'

‘All very admirable, in its way, but I still don't see …' Ellie began.

‘The
Vereins
kept meticulous records on all their members, and since it would be unthinkable for a German in London not to join at least one …'

‘There's a chance that there's some record of Max,' Ellie said.

‘Yes,' Patterson agreed, ‘especially if he went on the
Wanderschaft
.'

‘The what?'

‘It means “the wandering” and it's an old German tradition. Young men used to pack their belongings in a knapsack and wander around Germany, taking a variety of jobs just for the experience, but in the last fifty years or so they've expanded their horizons and started wandering in other countries.'

‘And since Max seems to know his way around London, you think he may have come
here
on a wandering?'

‘Exactly.'

‘But you've no idea whether Max is his real name or not, or how long ago he might have visited London,' Ellie pointed out.

‘That's true,' Patterson agreed, ‘but I think we can narrow down the possibilities.'

‘How?'

‘We know he's in the navy, don't we?'

‘Yes – otherwise, he'd never have had access to the documents.'

‘And we know he's not very high-ranking.'

‘Yes again, because he could only ever get his hands on one small piece of information.'

‘So the chances are he's not been in the navy long, which probably means he was here sometime between 1911 and 1913, and only left because he was called up to do his military service.'

‘That's brilliant – but it's still a long shot,' Ellie said.

‘Of course it's a long shot,' said Patterson, a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘But if we're ever going to save Sam's reputation, following long shots is all we've got.'

‘You're right,' Ellie said, suitably chastened. ‘Let's get to work.'

It took them half an hour to find the files of the German Industrial and Theatre Club, and another fifteen minutes to find a membership file that fitted their profile – but when they did find it, it was worth the effort.

Reading through the record – and guessing at most of the words – they learned that Max Schneider had been born in Hamburg in 1894, had joined the
Verein
in 1912 and had left in 1913. While he had been in England, he had lodged at a house in Hooper Street, which was just off Commercial Road and right in the centre of what had been pre-war Little Germany.

The reason for his departure in 1913 was clear by a cutting from the
Londoner Zeitung
, the German newspaper published in London.

The cutting read:

Max Schneider wurde von der Marine eingezogen. Er wird auf einem U-Boot dienen. Wir wünschen ihm alles Gute.

‘“Marine” is probably German for the navy, and “U-Boot” just has to be U-boat, doesn't it?' Patterson asked.

‘Definitely,' Ellie Carr agreed. ‘Is there anything else in the file?'

There was.

And it was something they'd never even dared to hope for.

A photograph!

The picture was of three young men sitting at a table, with steins of German beer in front of them; according to the writing on the back of the photograph, Max was the one in the middle.

He was a pale, intense young man, with a haughty expression and hard eyes, and it was not hard to believe that when he decided to sell his country's secrets, he had been too arrogant to use any first name but his own.

‘It's starting to look like less of a long shot now,' Patterson said excitedly.

‘Yes, it is,' Ellie replied, without a great deal of enthusiasm.

‘What's the matter?' Patterson asked.

‘Don't you think it was all a little
too
easy?' Ellie replied. Then she shook her head angrily. ‘I'm being far too negative,' she said, ‘and we can't afford to be negative.'

‘No,' Patterson agreed, ‘we can't.' He copied down Max's address and slipped the photograph into his pocket. ‘Well, it's time for you to pay the piper, who's waiting breathless at the door,' he said.

‘I'm looking forward to it,' Ellie replied.

The caretaker was standing in the doorway, blocking their exit.

‘You've been a long time,' he complained.

‘Well, like I said, it takes some blokes a long time to build up steam in their engines,' Ellie replied.

‘But it's my turn now?' the caretaker asked hopefully.

‘Course it is, dearie,' Ellie agreed. She paused. ‘Listen, you don't mind a bit of dampness, do you?'

‘Dampness?' the caretaker repeated.

‘Only, me steak and kidney pie's been losing a bit of gravy recently – if you know what I mean,' Ellie said.

‘No, I don't know what you mean,' the caretaker said.

Ellie sighed. ‘Me hairy clam's a bit off-colour,' she said. ‘Me Blackwall Tunnel's sprung a leak.'

‘You've got the clap!' the caretaker said.

Ellie shook her head. ‘I can't have, dearie. I'm always most particular about the gentlemen what I go wiv.'

The caretaker stepped quickly to one side. ‘Get out of here – the pair of you!' he said.

‘Listen, I'm more than willing to uphold my side of the bargain,' Ellie said reasonably.

‘Now!' the caretaker shouted, making sweeping gestures with his arm. ‘Leave right now.'

Ellie shrugged. ‘There's just no pleasing some people, is there, Arthur?' she asked.

‘Archie,' Patterson replied.

 

It was already dark by the time Patterson and Ellie Carr reached Hooper Street, a road lined with substantial terraced houses that had seen better days but which had not yet slid far enough down the scale to be categorized as slums.

Several of the houses had a large sign in their front windows which said ‘Vacancies' and number eleven was one of them.

Patterson knocked on the door, and the knock was answered by an unshaven man in his shirtsleeves.

‘Yes?' he said.

‘We'd like to speak to the landlady or landlord,' Patterson said.

‘She's not in,' the man told him.

‘Do you know when she'll be back?'

The man shrugged. ‘She's probably out on the razzle, so Gawd knows when she'll come home. But I'll tell you this much for nothing – she won't be sober when she does.'

And then he closed the door on them.

Another hour wasted, Patterson thought.

Tick-tock. Tick-bloody-tock.

‘We can come back tomorrow,' Ellie said encouragingly.

‘Yes, we can,' Patterson agreed bitterly. ‘I've always said there are very few better ways of enjoying Christmas Day than interrogating a drunken landlady.'

They started to walk back down the street and had not gone more than a few yards when the door of number seven opened and a middle-aged woman with fiery red hair stepped on to the pavement, effectively blocking their way.

‘Are you a copper?' she asked Patterson.

‘What makes you think that?' Archie replied.

‘Well, you look like a copper,' the woman said.

‘As a matter of fact, that's just what he is,' Ellie said. ‘But why is that of any interest to you?'

The woman sniffed. ‘If you ask me, it's about time that Elsie Wilson got a visit from the police.'

‘How long has she lived there?' Patterson asked.

‘Must be ten years now since she moved in with her husband – or rather the man she
said
was her husband. Poor soul!'

‘Poor soul?'

‘He hanged himself in the outside lavatory, about eight years ago. Living with that woman, it's a miracle he lasted
that
long without topping himself. I could tell you stories about her that would make your hair curl.'

‘Then please feel free to do so,' Patterson suggested.

M
aggie Patterson lay in the big double bed, next to her husband. She was pretending to be asleep, though in truth, with all the worry, she'd hardly slept at all.

This was the first Christmas Day in years that she wouldn't be up at six o'clock, waiting at the front door for Sam Blackstone to arrive with a plump goose, she thought. It would be the first Christmas in years that Archie wouldn't spend most of the morning rearranging the furniture, so that when Sam came back again at noon, with Ellie and half a dozen orphans from Dr Barnardo's in tow, there'd be space to fit them all in.

What happy Christmases they'd been, with the kids eating their tangerines, and then – when they thought the grown-ups weren't looking – playfully throwing the peel at each other. How contented Sam and Archie had looked, sitting at one end of the room and supping more bottles of brown ale than were strictly good for them.

They'd played games – pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and blind-man's-buff – and everybody had ended up laughing so much that they were almost in tears. And then Sam had produced gifts for everyone, and though it always seemed as if the orphans got the best presents, nobody had complained, because that seemed only fair.

It wouldn't be like that this Christmas. Archie wouldn't be there – he had to go out searching for this Max bloke. And even if he had been there, there wouldn't have been any goose, because when there was no wage coming in and what little savings you'd had were shrunk almost to nothing, you couldn't afford to splash out on luxuries.

She wondered how long Archie would be in prison, and if she would be able to stand it.

‘You'll
have to
stand it,' she told herself. ‘You've got to hold yourself together for the sake of the kids.'

But if she got ill, the kids would have to go into an orphanage – there was nowhere else they
could
go. And she couldn't even rely on their Uncle Sam to help her out, because whatever they all said about clearing his name, none of them really believed he was ever coming back.

‘You're not asleep, are you?' she heard Archie ask.

‘No,' she admitted, ‘I'm not.'

‘Have you been to sleep at all?'

‘Maybe for a short time.'

Archie laughed. ‘So all night long we've both just been lying there, each trying to fool the other,' he said. ‘If we'd known that, we could at least have got up and made a cup of tea. And I could use a cup now – I'm spitting feathers.'

‘I'll make you one right away,' Maggie said, starting to get out of bed.

‘You'll stay where you are,' Archie replied, laying his big beefy arm over her. ‘I'll make it.'

‘I
want
to make it,' Maggie said, lifting the arm off her.

And it was not quite a lie, because she
did
want to make it. But the more urgent reason for going downstairs was that she wanted to be as far as possible from Archie when the inevitable tears came.

When Tanya appeared at the door of the Vladimir's apartment, she was dressed in the typical peasant costume of a heavy sheepskin coat (a
shooba
) and felt boots (
valenki
), and she had a scarf on her head, which she'd tied in such a way as to hide her scar completely.

‘Vladimir has told me he wants you to come with me,' she said from the doorway.

‘Would you like to come inside for a few minutes first and drink a glass of tea to warm you up?' Blackstone asked.

Tanya shook her head. ‘We have to go now,' she said firmly.

‘As you wish,' Blackstone agreed, and as he followed her down the stairs, he was thinking, ‘This time last year, Maggie would already have started cooking the goose.'

They caught the number fourteen tram, which rattled along Sadovya Street and soon reached a large square which had a church on one side and a large covered market on the other.

‘What's that market called?' Blackstone asked.

‘Why should you be interested?' Tanya asked sullenly.

‘Why shouldn't I be interested?' Blackstone countered.

‘It's called the Haymarket,' Tanya snapped. ‘There! Are you any the wiser for knowing its name?'

‘Dostoyevsky thought of it as the stinking heart of the city,' Blackstone said, ‘and it's here that his central character, Raskolnikov, kisses the ground before turning himself in to the police.'